


A Letter from the Enemy

by knitmeapony



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knitmeapony/pseuds/knitmeapony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty years after a brief run-in at the quidditch lockers, Pansy finally gets around to sorting out her relationship with Ginny</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Letter from the Enemy

November 8, 2015

Gin (not the beverage):

I miss you.

I suppose that's the pansy (ha, ha) way out of this letter, but that's the simple fact of it. 

You left this morning, and already I'm writing. It's actually more common than you think -- last time when you left I discovered you'd nicked the last box of muesli, and I spent twenty minutes cursing you and two hours writing a letter just like this. Perhaps this time I'll find a way to send this, find the courage to ship it out.

Look, let me tell this story as I can -- you know it, but I need to put it out on paper and show you how I've come to these conclusions.

Once upon a time, there were two girls, and they went to the same school. They met when they both showed to deliver a condom to boys they knew -- Fred and Greg -- and after seeing one too many glimpses of nudity they set out to get absolutely legless together. And they got caught, of course, and ended up with so much detention they started to understand each other. Before all this they never really got along due to house differences, world differences, and a couple of bastards named Potter and Malfoy. But both girls were independent sorts who didn't really like following anyone's lead, let alone a sulky child, and so they set out on their own somewhere around the turn of the millennium.

The war had ended and some people went north and some went south, but somehow the two of them managed to keep meeting to get drunk. They drank over brothers who married French tarts and fathers who died and left a string of half-siblings. They drank over babies being born to the strangest couples, and marriages between people who had no business taking their pants off.

And somewhere in the middle of that, they started taking their own pants off. Collectively and... well, to hell with delicate words, Weasley. You cut your hair and I strapped on boots and we marched semi-triumphantly into queerdom. I say semi because you looked like a twit with the hair and boots never suited me and we ended up fighting so often it was ridiculous.

One girl went off into the world and got herself a really stupid job, the kind of job that makes her mother fret and cry. And me for that matter, you idiot. The fight over that was about safety, and security, and about being independent. The really big fight ended up with one black eye, four missed days of work, and the kind of sex that you think they only write about. (God, that was the first time I knew I was in trouble, Ginny. Waking up next to you with blood still on my teeth and this absolutely contented grin.)

Another girl just took her father's money and ran with it, and that got her into all kinds of trouble. War profiteering my left arse cheek, and the Prophet can quote me on that one. That fight, that fight was about what's fair and what's right, and where we each came from, and not being delicate about that anymore. (And that's when I knew, I really knew. Because we screamed and pushed and pulled and hated and in the end? Still magic.)

And there were all these other moments the girls would fight, that they would break up and come back and god, we had this rhythm, didn't we? There would always be the Problem, first, and then the Compromise. And then the sex, which we used to joke was the Solution. And maybe it was, you know? Maybe the way you look with nothing on at all is the way that I need to see you.

We agreed, last night, that there's too much blood in the water. That we can't do this casually anymore, that we've got to deal with the fact that we have different lives. But I've decided -- too late, as I usually do -- that I can't abide the thought that we're going to be less than we are.

So here I am, telling you that I miss you.

I miss the way you always steal the last of my cereal, most of the blanket, and my better slippers in the morning. I miss the way you use twelve towels just because they're all there, the way you spread out and take up so much space it's like you fill the whole manor. I miss the way you laugh at things I buy, miss the way you call me 'lipstick', miss the way you write it on my mirror when it's fogged so I see it after you're gone.

I miss you waking me up with the kind of kiss that floods the bed. I miss the way you're a morning person, in spite of the fact that you're a night person, even when you've kept me up all night (and yes, I do blame you for that.) I miss the way you smell when you come in from a run. I miss the way you try to tempt me out of doors, walk me through the garden like a slow walk is your usual way.

I miss the way you can surprise me, sneak up behind me while I'm looking for a book, and before I know it we're dancing. I can feel you pressed against my back, every inch, one arm around my waist and our fingers laced together. I miss the way you hum to the music as we sway, and you're always half a step sharp and that drives me mad but now I can't dance without humming along to the music.

I miss your curls, though god I wish you'd grow your hair out again. I miss your freckles, though I wish you'd learn to moisturize. I miss the way your skin looks against my sheets, against my walls, across my counters and chairs and tables and trees. I miss your blatant nudism, I miss the way you goad me into making the house clothing-optional. I miss the way you know you'll never win. I miss the way you know what'll happen if you wander into the kitchen topless.

I miss taking advantage of that. Kissing you and running fingers across skin, leaning in and pressing your wrists to the wall and you let me, god, you let me even when I've got three fingers inside of you and your eyes are burning, and I know you want to shove me down. I miss the way sometimes you just can't handle it anymore, the way you can break free before I even know what's happening and suddenly there are curls before my eyes. I miss the sound you make when I capitulate. I miss the tone of your voice when you have to give me orders.

I miss the way you'll carry me to bed if I demand it. I miss the look in your eyes when I forgo all that nonsense, when it's just you and I and the sheets and pillows. I miss the talk after, the long endless stream of consciousness while you hum with energy and kiss parts of me I forget I have until you're there, undemanding but unrelenting. I miss how much I laugh for just those few hours -- it's more than the rest of the year.

I miss looking in the mirror in the morning, knowing the bites will heal, the scratches smooth over, and wishing to god they wouldn't. I miss joining you in the shower to see if I can get you to make just a few more so they'll last just a little longer.

It's been twenty years to the day since I caught you shoving a condom under the door to your brother, and I haven't been able to get you out of my mind. I can't do this anymore, not the way we have. 

Ginevra, the key that's enclosed will open every door in my home except one. You know which door it is, and why, and will forgive me that small indulgence, I hope. You know I have a business trip for the rest of the month. The house is yours to do with as you will; the house elves stand ready at your beck and call.

I hope you'll take advantage of this time and move in.

And there, I've said it at last, and now we can move on. I hope to see you when I return, even if it isn't to stay.

Yours perpetually, endlessly, and rather shamefully in love (times infinity),

Pansy (the person, not the coward)

 

\------------------------------------------------

 

December 1, 2015

Pansy (the person, not the flower) -

Welcome home.

There's a few things I need you to understand before we can go here, before we can do this. 

I won't quit my job.

I won't cut my hair.

I won't stop reminding you that you've got too much money.

You will be coming to hols at the Burrow.

But I think we said all that before, and I think you know that.

I miss you too, the way you always have muesli even though you hate it, and always put new sheets on the bed just before I come, and always make up a guest room for propriety's sake.

And a thousand other stupid things.

So, as long as you don't mind, I'm in our room.

Gin (Who is also naked. Let that not influence your decisions _too_ much, hmm?)


End file.
